


Stutter

by caricaturecat



Series: Bookstore Universe [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abused Frisk (Undertale), Chara (Undertale) Is Dead, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Frisk (Undertale) Has Issues, Frisk (Undertale) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Frisk (Undertale) Needs a Hug, Frisk-centric, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Malnourished, Mute Frisk (Undertale), Nonbinary Frisk (Undertale), Pre-Undertale, Self-Harm, Undertale Saves and Resets, Undertale True Reset, Unintended, just a grounding mechanism, monsters are still trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 20:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18724624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricaturecat/pseuds/caricaturecat
Summary: The world stuttered. Stopped. Rewound.





	Stutter

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the beginning of a new era. References to abuse, neglect, rape, and self-harm.

**The world stuttered. Stopped. Rewound.**

Phantom aches accompanied Frisk’s waking up, the memory of the bullet lodged in their chest still fresh. The feel of excruciating pain before everything just... stopped. They clutched at their chest before freezing. Their hands were covered in scratches. Pudgy fingers attached to too thin arms. They felt vomit rise in the back of their throat but they pushed it back. Down. Away. They closed their eyes, intent on not facing whatever they were in alone.

_Chara?_ There was no response and Frisk tried to calm the rising panic. _Chara?_   Silence. _CHARA?_   No response and Frisk cautiously opened their eyes, hesitantly looking around the room. If you could even call it that. A faint dripping of condensation in the corner. Gray, dirty concrete. Dried blood and other bodily fluids (Frisk decided not to dwell on that) all around. The smell was horrific, a mix of metallic blood, mold, and other things. Frisk refused to open their mouth, breathing rapidly through their nose until the urge to vomit (mostly) passed, despite the smell. It was the same room that had haunted their dreams for years. The dreams that led to long showers and not long enough sleep, but ultimately pie or cuddles or spaghetti. The warmth at that memory faded as quickly as it came as a chill wracked their too thin body. _Malnutrition._ They had words for it that their ten year old self never did. The damp clung to them, invading their lungs. There was no heating in this concrete prison. _Abuse. Neglect._ The floor was dirty and stained, testimony to the horrors that had happened there.  _Rape. Torture._ So many words, so much knowledge about how not okay this was, and yet it didn't change the fact that they were back there.

They curled up in the corner, the safest place in the room.  _Conditioning._ Hands ran over each other, soothing Frisk as it always had. They had died. They had _died_. And somehow it had put them back. Back here. Not even in the Underground. Here. Where the horror of the resets and being killed over and over again paled in comparison to the horrors that they experienced for the whole ten years of their life. They were ten right? Time muddled everything up.

Chara wasn’t here. Chara was still dead, buried under a patch of flowers. They needed Frisk in order to wake up, they needed the determination to live again. The Underground. Everyone was still trapped. And it was their fault. A choked sob erupted from their throat but they swallowed it back down. They were back here. Couldn't make noise here. They pressed their hands to their eyes, fighting back the tears.

If only they had stayed with Zenith and Sans. If only they hadn’t gone off alone. Then they wouldn’t have died. They would be laughing and flirting and everything would be ok. The smell of Grillby's, of cedar and fries, of ketchup and alcohol. For a moment, they could almost smell it instead of the smell of.... Frisk didn't want to think about that. They would rather die. Another bout of phantom pain as Frisk remembered that they _had_ in fact died. They placed their trembling, too thin, hands over their chest, as if it would somehow restore the timeline. Take them back. _Please._

_Chara._ They mouthed the name, as if somehow it would allow them to bring their friend back. They would scream the name if they could but they couldn’t. Vocal chords destroyed when they were just a baby, to never heal. Silent sobs ripped through them.  _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry._ The stream of thoughts turned dangerous and Frisk allowed their mind to wander into the what ifs.

Chara is dead, buried under the very flowers that kept Frisk alive. Flowey, Asriel, would be himself, torturing any being that dared to approach him. Mom.... Frisk winced as their fingers dug in especially deep... not Mom yet, just Toriel, would be lonely. Sitting there, eating snail pie, missing Agore although it would take years to reconcile the two. Just beyond the Ruins, the weather would change into snow. Papyrus would be fixing his puzzles, desperately trying to stay busy. Sans would stare off into space. He always loved space. Frisk remembered trips to the observatory with Nozomi and Sans. Holding Zenith's hand. Warm, warm warm. It was too cold in here. Too cold. Deeper. Undyne would be hating humans but trying to hold herself together. Cooking with Papyrus, calling Alphys. Alphys... would be feeding the Amalgamates. Wracked with guilt. Doing fix-ups on Mettaton, who wanted nothing more than to be a star. And Dad... Asgore, watering the flowers, trying to pretend that he was okay, trying so hard. 

Their fingers dug into their arm deeper and deeper and deeper, but they were too lost in thought to notice. Not that they would have cared regardless. They felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in their throat, but choked it down. They thought of each of their friends, stuck back at the beginning. This shouldn't have happened this shouldn't have happened this shouldn't have happened. A warm trickling sensation brought them back. Crescent shaped cuts, thanks to their fingernails. The blood trickled lazily down their arm and they felt sick satisfaction at the sight.

They pressed their hands against their face. The bruises allowed them to ground themself. Bruises. They almost laughed. They were back, they shouldn’t be back, they should be fine. They took some deep breaths. Slowly the panic faded. Slowly their mind cleared and they were able to think again. Their tiny frame shook. They ignored it. They pulled on their boots, noticing how their skin was taut around their bones, as if they were trying to get free. The thought reminded them of Sans and Papyrus and they almost were sick. The blood on their arm felt tacky and cold.

They shrugged on their classic sweater, dirty and bloody and torn. They grabbed a bandage and wrapped it around their arm sloppily. They snuck out of the basement quietly before slipping through the first window they could find. Freedom now in hand, they sprinted towards the mountain looming in the distance, picking up the first stick they came across, filled with determination.

They had a job to do.


End file.
